


A Promise

by Seneschal



Series: Puzzle Pieces [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (but we all knew that), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child!Hawke collects strays, Child!Hawke is adorable, Danarius is a jerkface, F/M, Fenris is a BAMF, Gen, HE IS, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm & Leandra Do What They Want, Much like Adult!Hawke, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, This is an ongoing theme, no really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:26:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seneschal/pseuds/Seneschal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost everyone gets a Soulname. It’s something every child looks forward to, and who wouldn’t? It’s the name of your soulmate, marked into your skin. In your soulmate’s own penmanship, it brands you forever; a promise.</p>
<p>But what happens if your soulmate never learns to read…or write?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Promise

“Mama,” Marian asked quietly, tugging at Leandra’s skirts, peering up at her. “Mama,” she said, again, and Leandra leant over to help her daughter climb into her lap, where she sat cuddled against her. “Yes, Marian, dear?” she stroked her fingers through her daughter’s lovely dark hair, smiling when small hands went to the round curve of her belly, feeling for kicks or nudges. Marian’s unborn sibling rarely failed to indulge her desire to feel them, and, as ever, they kicked soon under Marian’s hands, sending the girl giggling delightedly. Soon that smile was turned her way, her daughter’s bright blue eyes sparkling. “Tell me ‘bout soulmates, mama?” She asked, still lisping her ‘s’ sounds a little. 

It was every child’s favorite story to ask after, at this age, and even a little older. Leandra smiled, stroking her little starling’s hair back from her face. “Of course, my starling. So, you know, then, that every person is created with a puzzle-piece hole in them. That puzzle-piece is shaped very, very carefully, so that it can be shared with just one other person.” Marian butted in, childlike enthusiasm boundless, to ask, “Only just one?”

Smiling, Leandra nodded. “Yes, buttercup. Only just one. And because there are so very many people out there, the gods knew we might never find the person whose puzzle piece fits ours without some help. So, they gave us a great gift, darling. Do you know what that is?” She suppressed a chuckle at the way Marian gasped, “Soulnames!” as though this were only the first time she’d heard this, instead of the hundredth. “Exactly right, Miri.”

“Soulnames are where our soul mate, the person whose soul-puzzle-piece fits ours perfectly, are able to reach out and write their names on our wrists, where we can never lose them, and never forget them.” Marian grinned brightly. “So we can find them, right, Mama?” she asked, and Leandra nodded, kissing her daughter’s forehead. “Just so, dear. Just so. Our soulnames are a promise, Marian. Do you know what that promise is?” she asked, watching those ice blue eyes look up at her, loving and guileless.

“Yes, Mama. It’s a promise we’re not alone, even when we feel like there’s nothing left.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian becomes a big sister. It comes with responsibilities. Sometimes being a big sister isn't as easy as she thought it would be.

Marian was five years old when her baby sibling turned out to be baby siblings—a brother and a sister. Nobody had told Marian there might be two siblings to be had, rather than one, and the little girl had been pleased as punch when she’d finally been let back into the house after the midwife left. Her Daddy had sent her outside to play with strict orders not to come back until he called for her, when her Mama had started to have the baby. When he’d come to get her, she’d not been far from the house, and had been sitting on a swing her Daddy had hung in the old oak tree out back when he’d stepped out of their cottage and called for her. 

Later in life, Marian wouldn’t remember much from this phase of her life, but she would remember hearing his deep voice calling her name over the buzzing of the cicadas in the distance. She would remember looking up from her bare feet dragging in the dirt under the tree as she idly swung herself back and forth to see him coming towards her, the cottage door swinging open, and smiling as broadly as she’d ever seen him, his bronze-ish gold hair gleaming brightly in the sun. This was, for the rest of her life, what Marian always remembered her father looking like. Sun-dappled, tanned with freckles across his nose and cheeks, his shoulders broad and strong in his homespun cloth shirt as he came to sweep her into his arms, smiling bright as the sun. That was her father. 

She’d always remember the way he met her halfway across the yard with his long strides and knelt to catch her in his arms, sweeping her up to spin her in a circle while laughing and kissing her cheeks, proclaiming, “Time to meet your new baby brother and sister, Marian!” as he strode towards the house with her on his hip. Marian would always remember the surprise and delight she’d felt at having two baby siblings—not just one! Her friends were going to be so jealous!—and the awe and love she felt, looking down at the babies Mama held, one in each arm. Mama had looked so tired, but so proud, and so happy, and Marian had felt proud and happy, too. She couldn’t wait to play with her baby sister and brother, to teach them where to catch the biggest frogs and how to swing on the rope into the creek, and so many other things. Being a big sister was going to be the best!

For all that she’d remember from that day, though, the thing that stood out to her most of all was when they sat together with Marian holding her baby brother in her lap in bed next to Mama, who was holding her new sister, both of them still wrinkly and red and really very ugly, and Daddy turned to her and said, “You know, Marian, this means you’re a big sister, now. That comes with some big responsibility. These two will always look up to you—you’re their big sister, you know. That means it’s up to you to set a good example, to show them right from wrong, and to keep them safe. You think you can do that for me, Sis?”

And Marian turned to him and said, “Yes Daddy. I promise.”

~ + ~

* * *

~ + ~

Marian Hawke at eight years old was a bundle of energy, forever rushing out to play in the creek and coming home dripping mud and algae, dragging with her some trapped frog or snake or newt or other manner of small critter wriggling frantically in the pocket of her skirt. Leandra had learned a few years ago to meet her oldest daughter at the doorway, where they would then enter into a contest of wills wherein Leandra would demand that Marian produce all of her unwilling ‘companions’ and release them where they belonged in the pond out back before coming into the house, and Marian would adamantly insist that they were her pets now, and she had to take care of them—or, on occasions, that she didn’t have anything at all (which, Leandra discovered when she began instituting Mandatory Pocket Checks, was rarely the case). 

Malcolm never failed to find it funny when Leandra went to tend to the laundry only to find a lizard, turtle, or snake crawling its way out of the clothes and into her hands, and inevitably screamed in fright. Never seeing the problem with it, Malcolm had encouraged Marian’s sense of adventure and curiosity, and had spent a great deal of time with her when he was not working. It was a difficult life, living as a peasant in a cottage, tending to sheep, but as hard as it could be to eke out a living, their family life was idyllic. Malcolm was a wonderful father, never hesitating to take Marian or the twins to help Leandra out, even if he did make life more difficult by encouraging Marian’s tendency to bringing strays into the home.

Her propensity to bring home strays only grew worse as she grew older; as the twins began to get old enough to talk and be curious about the things their big sister showed to them, her motivation to find things to bring to her little siblings increased manifold, much to Leandra’s despair and Malcolm’s amusement. Snakes, frogs, and lizards became stray cats and dogs, and from there it became baby squirrels when she found an abandoned squirrel’s nest when she was nine and insisted they raise the squirrels to adulthood. From there, it became an injured raccoon—and how in the world eleven year old Marian and her six year old siblings got the thing home without anyone being injured was testament to both their cleverness and stubbornness—but even Malcolm had drawn the line when she’d come home carrying with her a baby skunk. That night there’d been the inevitable but much-protested discussion over what did, and what did not, make for an appropriate pet. 

The skunk was let back go where she’d found it outside the burrow, and Malcolm and Marian had been tossed scrub-brushes and soap when they trudged home smelling of skunk spray. Thankfully, smelling of skunk musk for a few weeks had curbed Marian’s desire to find wild animals and bring them home for a while, and she learned very well what skunks were and to avoid them without any additional punishment needed. Unfortunately, the rest of the family was punished for her misdeeds as well, since two of their number now smelled heavily of skunk even with the harsh lye soap, and there was truly no escaping the odor when you were sharing a small cottage with them. (Leandra counted it a win, though, when no further skunks were ever brought into the home.)

Thus went the first few years of Marian’s life as a big sister. Early on, it involved little change from the time before, except that suddenly their quiet cottage was oftentimes much, much louder, with the sounds first of wailing babies, and then babbling mouths and rattling toys and, after what felt like forever but was truly only a few months, the first few words of little Carver and Bethany’s lives.

Marian never remembered what Bethany’s first word was—Mama, she thought—but she always remembered how Carver’s first word was Riri (or, rather ‘Wiwi’ at first, much to Marian’s amusement at the time), which was what he called her until he was ten, when he got to be too big for baby nicknames. She’d been so happy her baby sister and brother were starting to talk, and suddenly, being a big sister was much more interesting now that it was less drooling and spitting up and crying and more playing with blocks and learning to say things. She loved spending time with them between her own time spent out with her friends, teaching them very important words like ‘stick’ and ‘sword’ and ‘kitty, Carver, kitty!’ with great seriousness. She loved helping Mama with the twins like a big girl, although for the first few years, she still spent more time out of doors with her own friends than inside with her toddler siblings.

Things began to change a little, though, as the twins got old enough to walk around and talk on their own. Then they began to tag along with her more often than not, and Marian started to learn more about what it meant to be a big sister. 

~ + ~

* * *

~ + ~

It took a little while for Marian to truly realize that her younger siblings simply couldn’t keep up with her and her friends just yet. She knew it peripherally, of course; they’d often fall behind or complain of being tired, and for a while she simply encouraged them to keep up, waiting impatiently as they did, before speeding along ahead. She simply assumed they could keep up with her while blazing the trail ahead of them, often leaving them far behind and left out in the process.

None of this was really terribly problematic until the day that Marian and her friends wanted to go swimming down at the creek when Marian was ten and the twins were five, and the twins tagged along. They’d been taking turns swinging on the rope hung from the branch of a tree overhanging the water in what the village kids had dubbed the swimming hole, which was really just a wide bend of the river where it got slow and fairly deep, allowing the braver kids to swing out on the branch from the raised bank that formed the outer curve of the creek, where the water had undercut the bank and eroded the area until it formed a ledge about five feet over the water level, with a nearly sheer drop, and a little cave underneath where the tree roots were visible, and drop into the deeper water in the center. Peter, his older brother Rudie, Carissa and her brother Mikhal, Nandy, Lars, Rika and Marian had been taking turns swinging out into the water with happy shrieks to splash down and paddle their way back to the shore, all of them ignoring the complaints of the littles, who couldn’t swim very well, and were so relegated to the ‘kiddy area’, which was a shallow sandbar some twenty feet upriver.

Naturally, the so-called ‘littles’, consisting of Nandy’s little sister Diane, Rika’s little brother Sammy, and Carver and Bethany, had protested the situation from the outset. Like all little kids, they wanted to be bigger than they were, and hated to be called little kids. To Marian and the older children, they were just being babies, and of course were mostly ignored. Eventually, the group approached the older kids to complain. Carver, who was quickly emerging as the more outspoken of the group, had spoken up first and loudest. “Can’t we stop now? We wanna do something fun. You’ve been doing that for ages!” He complained, a whine to his tone that irritated Lars. The older boy, a tow-headed boy with a missing front tooth—one he’d proudly shown off as a sign of how grown-up he was, starting to get his grown-up teeth already—had turned to scowl at him. “We’re playing! You can go play in the kiddie area. Or you can swing,” he said, gesturing with the rope in his hand, a gleam entering his eyes, and he taunted, “unless you’re too scared.”

There was a moment of silence as the rest of the group looked on, nearly holding their breath. A challenge like that couldn’t go unanswered, they all knew. Any kid who got a challenge like that and ignored it, well—they’d never live something like that down. Bethany, her eyes wide, looked to Marian, to see if she’d object. Surely Marian wouldn’t let him? Carver could swim a little, sure, but he’d never gone out in the deep water, where it was over his head! Of course, Carver could never back down from a challenge. He puffed up and took a step forward, proclaiming in his high voice, “I’m not scared o’ nothin’!” and reached for the rope.

Several heads swiveled towards Marian, including Lars, his challenging her to step forward and say no. She’d been teaching Carver to swim, she reasoned with herself. He could doggy paddle pretty good, all the way across the shallow part of the pond. Surely he’d be okay, she thought nervously, shrinking a little under their eyes. When she remained silent, Lars handed over the rope and Bethany gasped, “Riri!” and grabbed for Marian’s hand, who brushed her off with a muttered, “It’s fine, Beth,” and watched her baby brother take the rope in his small, soft hands, his chin jutted out in a stubborn show of bravery. “I ain’t scared of nothin’” he repeated, grabbed the rope, and took a running leap.

Out, out and over the water, he swung in a wide arch, and, like the other kids, he let go of the rope as he came up, screaming more in fear than in exhilaration as he went up and then back down towards the water. The other kids watched in awe as he smacked down with a truly impressive splash and ‘splop’, almost flat on his belly. He was under water for a long, scary minute, and Marian’s heart raced with sudden fear. Why wasn’t he coming up? Had he hurt himself? Was he drowning? Oh, god, she killed Carver—

\--but, before she could truly get herself worked into a fit, he surfaced with a loud, long gasp, and laboriously began to doggy paddle his way back to shore, where he was hauled out of the water to the cheers and congratulations of the other kids, who could hardly believe he’d done that. What a great jump! He went out so far! Wow, that belly flop must have HURT! Look how red his belly was! Grinning and flushed with pride, he’d lapped up all the praise of his peers, and was happy to hug Beth and Riri when they went to him. Then, of course, all of the littles wanted a try, and why not? Maybe they were all old enough. So, they did, although Bethany hesitated until all the others had had a go, and Carver and Marian coaxed her into taking her turn. “Just grab it and run really fast and jump, and let go when you start going up!” Carver told her, “It’s fun!” he exclaimed, now an expert after his five turns on the rope.

The others, by now enjoying the novelty of seeing their kid siblings try out the rope swing for the first time ever, and of course enjoying the superiority that came with teaching them how to do it better and occasionally showing off their own superior rope-swinging skills, egged her on until she took the rope nervously, backed up, and took a running leap from the ledge.

She was doing it! She was! Bethany swung through the air on the rope with a scream, but as she started to come up from the swing, and the others began shouting to “Jump! Let go! Beth, let go!”, she found she couldn’t. Frozen, Bethany clung to the rope tightly, screaming again as her swing gained speed and momentum, now moving in a wide arch out over the water and—then, back in. It was too late to jump, now, and she could only stare in terror as she went straight towards a copse of smaller trees and thickly growing brambles.

Terrified, she didn’t let go until after she’d hit the first tree, only about the size of her arm, and by then it was far, far too late. Marian watched in horror as her baby sister slammed into the tree, her scream taking on a new level of terror and pain, and Marian had never run so fast in her entire life as she did then. It felt as though she teleported to her sister’s side, where she found her sobbing in the dirt at the base of a tree and in a bush, her hair horribly tangled in the branches, scratched, bloody, and clutching at her head and arm.

When Marian got her on her feet she was terrified to see bright red blood all over Bethany’s face, running down from a cut high on her forehead in her hairline in a streak all the way down that side of her face. Her arm was at a funny angle, and she was wailing with tears, clinging to Marian desperately and hiccupping, “I w-want..m-my…Mama!” into Marian’s dress, blood smearing the already wet fabric. At her elbow, Carver was sobbing, too, terrified of how hurt Beth was and how scary this all was.

The walk back home seemed to take forever and no time at all, with Marian carrying Beth on her hip as much as she could, and Lars, the biggest of them at twelve, carrying her when Marian couldn’t anymore. Mikhal ran ahead of them all with Nandy to tell the adults, and Mama met them before they even got to the gate, sweeping Beth into her arms with a gasp. She bustled away in a swirl of skirts, leaving Miri and Carver to run alongside her as she ran for the house, but when Marian started to go inside, she was startled by Mama swinging around to order her, her voice cracking like a whip, “Marian! Run out to the fields to get your father. Hurry, now! Don’t dawdle! And you!” She barked with her No-Nonsense voice at the rest of the kids, “You get on home now! You’d best not be back to that creek, today, lest somebody else get themselves hurt. Get going, now!”

Her No-Nonsense voice scattered the other kids just as quick as it ever did Marian and Beth and Carver, and they turned to go home, although not before casting Marian sympathetic looks, each of them clearly knowing how much trouble she’d be in for this. Everybody knew it was your responsibility to look out for your kid brothers and sisters, and it was on you if they got hurt on your watch. 

Marian didn’t stick around, she turned and fled into the fields, running as fast as she could with her heart in her throat, and when she found Daddy, and explained, panting, what had happened, his usually jovial face had gone hard and worried, and he’d scooped up his staff in one hand and started for home at a run, calling for her to hurry up. She fell behind, of course, because his legs were much longer than hers, and she was gasping when she got back home. When she ducked inside, the doors and windows were shut up tight, and everybody was in the kitchen, where Beth was laying on the table and Mama was holding a piece of cloth over the cut on her head, pressing down steadily, while Daddy was mixing together something that smelled sharp and pungent, tickling Marian’s nose. Beth was still hiccupping quietly, her face red and blotchy with tear-tracks, and Carver was sitting off in the corner, watching with big eyes. Marian crept over to join him, putting her arms around him; they huddled together, watching with worry as Daddy made Beth drink a potion that made her grimace but settle down quietly, vacant-eyed and sleepy looking. “We’re going to have to set it,” she heard her Daddy mutter grimly, “even the sedative isn’t going to keep her from feeling it, Leandra. You’re going to have to hold her down.” His head swung around, and he looked at his other children, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Carver, go you your room.” He started to protest, and Daddy said in his sternest voice, “Now!” Cowed, Carver crept out, and once the door closed, Daddy said, “Marian. Come over here.” Slowly, she did so, approaching with trepidation. She’d never seen her Mama or Daddy’s faces so serious and pinched before.

“Your sister’s broken her arm, and we have to get the bones back together, or she won’t heal right. You have to hold her legs down, kids, so she doesn’t move. This is going to hurt, and she isn’t going to like it, but we have to do it. For her own good. You understand? You have to hold as tight as you can.” Although she really didn’t, not very much, Marian nodded anyways, and went over to lean over her sister’s legs, putting her arms around her sister’s legs and squeezed them tight. She watched as best she could as her Mama leant over Beth, blocking most of Marian’s view, and her Daddy reminded her, “Hold on tight, now,” and then she could see him bend down over Beth, over Mama’s shoulders.

She didn’t know what he did, then, but whatever it was, it made Bethany go tight under her like a bowstring and start to kick and thrash, and she started screaming and sobbing. It took everything in Marian to hold her still, even though Beth was so, so small, and so much weaker than her or Carver, but in that moment it felt like she was fighting against one of the ewes during their first shearing, when they were afraid and struggling to get away. The screaming was horrible and high and so, so awful, and it went on and on and on…

Until, suddenly, Bethany went limp and silent under Marian, and that was so, so much worse than the screaming. Terrified, Marian piped, her own voice high with panic, “Beth! Beth, what’s, what’s wrong!” but was soothed by her Mama’s hand in her still-damp hair, “Hush, Marian, she’s just fainted. She’s alright, dear. Look, see?” She hadn’t realized that she’d had her eyes closed, but when she opened them, it was to see her Mama and Daddy standing straight, her Daddy holding his hands out over Beth’s arm, which was turning purple and green but wasn’t bent at that bad angle anymore, and his hands were glowing soft gold and yellow and white. She felt a ripple of—of something, in the air, from his hands, and slowly, some of the purple and swelling faded away. He sat like that for a minute, working the magic—and she’d known he was a mage, but had never really seen him do magic for real before this—before it all began to fade.

“What—what was that? Is Beth gonna be okay?” She asked, breathless, and her Daddy had smiled wearily at her. “That was a Healing spell, Marian. She’ll be fine. Her arm will have to stay wrapped up for a few weeks, and she can’t pick anything heavy up for a while, but she’ll be okay.” 

Then there were hugs and comforting words all around, and baths for each of them. That night, her parents demanded and got an explanation of what had happened, and, shamefacedly, Marian had told them it was all her fault. What followed was a long talk, well after Beth and Carver got sent to bed, about just what being a big sibling meant. About responsibility, and how sometimes, being a good big sister meant she may not be able to play the way she used to, or the way she wanted to. And about how, sometimes, when you weren’t careful and didn’t think about the consequences of your actions, people you cared about got hurt. This time, Daddy told her very seriously, it hadn’t been that serious. Bethany would be okay. But next time, he cautioned, they might not be so lucky.

Marian never forgot that, and the events that day changed forever how she viewed herself and her relationship with her siblings. That was when Marian learned that, sometimes, even when you were having fun, people could get hurt. She vowed to herself to take better care of her siblings in the future. It was her job. She was a big sister, after all.

~ + ~

* * *

~ + ~

As the twins reached that age where the most exciting story in the world is the story of Soulnames and how their own parents had met, Marian was eager as ever to hear the story, and sometimes to interrupt it self-importantly to pass along snippets that Leandra or Malcolm had ‘forgotten’ to include. Wintertime was ever the best time of the year for story-telling, both because it was cold outside and everybody wanted to be inside by the toasty little fire crackling cheerfully in the fireplace, and because it grew dark outside early, meaning there was little to do but gather inside to exchange stories or learn to read while Mama knitted or sewed or spun wool by the fireplace. Thus, it was sitting by the fire one evening, Leandra knitting while the three children sat at her feet by the hearth, Malcolm whittling away at his chair across from her, that the twins enjoyed their first recital of how Mama and Daddy had known they were Soulmates.

Like all of the best love stories, it began with forbidden romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This one ran on way, way longer than I expected...and is not exceptionally plot-heavy. Sorry, guys. For some reason, they wanted some character development and childhood exploration. But I also wanted to explore why Marian's such a natural little leader. Nobody starts out great, after all, and everybody fails sometimes. So. Marian has to learn to want to protect people...and that she won't always succeed. Thoughts on this?
> 
> I promise, we have more soul-matey action coming in the future chapters. I'm just slow about it. :) I have an official chapter outline for the next few chapters, though, and I'm thinking this could run into some side-fics for some of the other characters. (I have a fun one in mind for Isabella for example.)
> 
> Thank you for the lovely reviews and kudos from last chapter!!! I really appreciate it. :) I hope you like this chapter so far.
> 
> Have a great day!
> 
> ~Sen


	3. Leandra & Malcolm, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of Leandra and Malcolm's story.

The fashion among Kirkwall’s elite upper class when Leandra Amell was a young woman was to cover your Soulname. For women, this meant wearing clever lace or silk gloves, corsages around the wrist, or fancy, decorative bracers made to look like the ones men or warriors wore, fashioned out of lace and brocades, elaborate and fanciful. For men, this meant leather or knit gloves, thick wristbands or bracers, or long sleeves. The accessories were often highly decorative, and the nobles would have many, to suit whichever outfit they may find themselves wearing.

This was not a fashion that caught on among the majority of Kirkwall’s lower-class or middle-class citizens, who often could be seen regarding the decorative coverings with confusion. Why would you want to cover your Soulname, they wondered? Having it covered could prevent your soulmate from recognizing their handwriting, or from someone else recognizing it and bringing you to them. Everybody was expected to want to meet their soulmate, even the snooty rich folk.

This confusion came about (not that Leandra would realize this until several years after she first began to wear those fashionable gloves and bracers) because the way that the classes of Kirkwall viewed soulnames were completely at odds with one another. Among the lower, lower-middle, middle, and even upper-middle classes, finding one’s soulmate was in popular opinion a wonderful thing. It was romanticized and talked about with reverence, and was something everybody wanted—or were supposed to want—and soulmates were expected and encouraged to marry and have children and be happy for the remainder of their lives. A soulmate was a shot at happiness, which even then was in short supply in Kirkwall.

In Hightown, however, Soulnames were viewed in a completely different light. Among these upper echelons of citizenry, lineage was everything—well, lineage and money, but if you could count yourself in the upper echelons of society, then you already had money, and your reputation (and reputation is everything, isn’t it?) is dependent upon your lineage. Being able to flaunt these things in an elegant fashion without overstepping the neat little bounds of societal niceties would only boost your status. What that ultimately meant was that, for the nobility of Kirkwall, and indeed the noble class of most places, control is of great import. Control over the comings and goings of those below you, control over court politics, control over your wealth and the others around you, but perhaps most importantly of all, control over your family and lineage. Great families could be made or broken depending on their wisely chosen and well-timed political marriages.

Having pre-destined soulmates throws a wrench into all of that. Therefore, under all the simpering coos over young lords and ladies manifesting their soulnames, there were sharp eyes and cold calculation over how those Names might be beneficial or—not. Obviously, the beneficial matches must be cultivated and allowed to blossom into good little political matches (and it was convenient indeed when everything worked out this way) but unfortunately, few nobles were fortunate enough to possess Soulnames aligned with the political designs of their family. Trained from a young age that the family name and reputation were paramount in importance, and personal happiness was only a peripheral concern, most nobles went willingly along with plans to wed to individuals not their soulmates in the names of power, prestige, or wealth.

Ultimately, however, underneath all of the polite smiles and demure murmurs simmered a deep resentment. Resentment for the lower classes, certainly, who despite living in poverty were free to choose to be with and openly search out their soulmate. Resentment towards their own soulmates, sometimes, for daring to have been born the wrong class or gender or species, or even simply from the wrong family, and resentment towards the system as a whole—towards the concept of soulmates and soulnames at all, even! Oh, yes, Kirkwall’s nobility, in Leandra’s youth, was a cesspool of anger, resentment, and refusal to change stifling and hated, but time-honored traditions. 

There were stories, of course, whispered about over tea and giggled over during gossip, highly romanticized by society, about nobles who’d found their soulmates to be someone unsuitable, and rather than resign themselves to doing what was decent—and stay happily married with their arranged spouse without considering dalliance with their soulmate—chose to pursue their soulmates despite their existing marriage. People pretended surprise, whispering rumors over this or that Lord who was known to sneak his way to Lowtown every other weekend to visit some woman (or lad) who’d clutch at their wrist and sigh after him, regret in their eyes, when he’d leave them each time to return to his proper family. Or stories of women inviting lovers over, ushering them swiftly out the window when jealous husbands came home early. None of the stories focused on the majority of the nobles, however, who suffered quietly and without complaint through a loveless arranged marriage, keeping their head down and either never seeking out or refusing to approach their soulmate. This last group was perhaps the saddest of all; everyday tragedies, souls killed without ever needing bloodshed or loss of life, but they remain the least-discussed, the least controversial of all; and yet, these stories would be the ones to cause the most upset among the lower-class. 

But this story isn’t about any of those people at all. This story is about Leandra Amell and Malcolm Hawke, who heard the demands of society and spit in their faces rather than bow to their expectations.

~ + ~

* * *

~ + ~

It all started with a festival. The spring festival was one celebrating the coming of spring, obviously, although admittedly it was held in mid- to late-spring rather than early, because that was when strawberries began to ripen, and who wouldn’t rather have a strawberry festival than one where the main foodstuffs are left-overs from winter stores? The celebration was a three-day event that consumed Hightown and Lowtown alike, spilling into the streets and squares and some meadows outside the city, even. There were music, dancing, games, rides, showmen of all sorts, and of course food—just to name a few of the attractions of the festival. The markets at this point were often flooded with exotic wares as well, creating one more draw for people to come out. This time of year would be the first time since winter storms locked up many ports that the more far-flung traders would be able to make their way into Kirkwall’s ports to deliver goods. Kirkwall’s denizens were always eager to snatch up these rare goods, which at other times of the year were completely unavailable or prohibitively expensive.

The Amells were visiting the festival with a contingent of guards and servants; guards to keep the chattel back and prevent any muggings or assassination or kidnapping attempts, and the servants to carry those items their masters deigned to purchase. They were dressed to impress, of course, with Lady Amell wearing a rich golden yellow dress embroidered with deeper gold flowers and trimmed in cream, Lord Amell in deep green edged in that very same cream, and Leandra wearing a soft purple. Gamlen, her brother, wore a pastel blue. The servants and guards, meanwhile, wore the livery of House Amell. More than a chance to enjoy the festival, this was a show meant to impress those around them with their might and elegance, to one-up the other nobles and to remind everyone that, yes, the Amells were still a force to be reckoned with in the political landscape of Kirkwall.

Leandra hated it. It took something that should have been fun and made it into just one more dog-and-pony show, where they must walk gracefully and hold themselves with poise and elegance, where their every move must be calculated to best project their power and their superiority over those around them. She felt like a prized horse in a show, docile in hand to be judged and measured, and it was ever a feeling she’d loathed. It was a shame that they’d turned something meant to be fun into this. Still, she had some hope that there may be a way to salvage the festival for herself, yet. 

The festivals were known for running late into the night and for hosting great revels for the young folk in Kirkwall—and it was an open secret that these revels were where a large majority of them went to seek out their soulmates. Not, of course, that anyone was banned from coming simply for the pleasure of food and drink, music and dance—or, of course, for finding pleasant company for the night! Springtime, after all, was for the youth. 

It was to these parties that Leandra wished to go, that evening. She’d never been before, and already she felt her time of freedom for such things dwindling. At seventeen years old, Leandra was already engaged to be wed the next year to the son of an Orlesian Comte, Guillaume de Launcet, and was sorely feeling the squeeze; every day was that much closer to losing her freedom completely. She dreaded it; the thought of living like most Ladies did, always prim and proper, perfect wives bearing babies for her husband and raising them to be perfect children to the Lord’s family. She cringed to think of herself on the Comte’s arm, smiling demurely and dressed up pretty as could be; a trophy and broodmare at once, and with as much choice in what to do with her life and body as either. Guillaume, from what she’d observed on those occasions they’d met, was not a cruel man, and she didn’t think he’d treat her poorly. Rather, each time they’d met, he’d treated her with a grave, if distant, sort of respect.

She didn’t hate him, of course. It was only that Leandra didn’t love him. When she’d admitted some of her trepidation and dismay to her mother, Lady Bethann had fondly laughed and drawn her into a hug, reassuring her, “Leandra, dear, don’t fret so! The Comte will treat you well, darling. You’ll have everything you could ever want or need, and you’ll be comfortable and taken care of for life. You know we wouldn’t choose someone for you who we thought wouldn’t treat our dearheart exactly the way we’d want her to be treated. This is an important alliance marriage, too, and you know that. We need it. As powerful as the Amells are, this marriage will cement our ties to Orlesia, and open up many more business opportunities for us. Besides—Orlesia is a beautiful place, and Guillaume is a handsome and kind man. You’ll grow to like him and your new home, both.”

That had all been true, but it wasn’t the sympathy she’d been hoping for. She’d gone to Gamlen, then, who was as ever her confidante and best friend. He’d been far more sympathetic, and was just as unhappy with the idea of his sister being married off and sent to Orlesia as she was—although she could admit that probably some of that was due to the fact that she, his one true advocate and barrier between him and their parents, would be removed from him in only one year. He’d be expected to step up and be the heir to the line of Amell, preparing to take their father Lord Aristide’s place in the future. He’d been sympathetic, but other than to hug her and try to cheer her, there’d been little he could do about the situation. It was beyond his power—and indeed hers, and therefore would simply have to be borne as her lot in life.

Leandra could see what her mother and her friends meant about the Comte. Guillaume was really what the other girls would call a catch; the Comte was a tall man, a few years older than herself at 25 years old, with curly black hair and dark eyes under heavy brows. He had an olive town and even, strong facial features. His voice was deep and he spoke with a gravitas that naturally drew the eye and attention; he commanded respect in his bearing and of course for his position. More than just that, though; he was respectful both to his peers and to those beneath him, and treated women with respect and dignity. She could see that a life with him would be no hardship. The man would treat her well, and would likely indeed indulge her every whim.

But Leandra had grown up with her every whim being indulged by her doting parents, and while that was nice, she wanted more than that in a relationship. She couldn’t help but think that he was humorless. He was too serious, and too grave, and she’d never once seen him wearing a genuine smile that wasn’t just to be polite, she thought. He didn’t talk beyond what social niceties required, and couldn’t be counted on for conversation or humor or banter. The man simply had no interest in talk of trivialities. He would talk for hours about the politics and policies of the city, about legislation and taxes and imports and exports, but couldn’t carry on a conversation about the popular books of poetry, or about the opera, or about much of anything that wasn’t related to work. 

No, Leandra did not want to be married to Guillaume, even though there was nothing objectively wrong with him. It was only that she looked at him, and couldn’t help but think of the name on her wrist, scrawling and slightly slanted, with a playful swoop here or there—“Malcolm Hawke”, right there over her pulse point. Guillaume wasn’t Malcolm Hawke—his signature was an elegant and practiced thing, with lots of loops and swoops, and nothing like the messy scrawl of her Soulmate. It was nothing like Leandra’s own handwriting—the practiced script she’d been made to practice over and over, until it was as lovely as any scribe’s—but something about it made Leandra think that Malcolm, whoever he was, must be a nice man. Happy, maybe. Cheerful, she thought wistfully. Someone who would smile at her and actually mean it, and who would want Leandra for her, and not for the status she would bring or for the pretty doll to hang off his arm at parties. When she knew she would not be observed, she allowed herself to think and daydream wistfully of such things, stroking her fingertips across his name wistfully.

But Hawke wasn’t the name of any noble family she’d been able to find, not even as far as Orlesia or Tevinter. Like every noble family, they’d searched frantically but quietly for the name as soon as she’d presented, but had come up with nothing. So, it had been since she’d gotten her name at seven that she’d worn wrist covers to hide the shameful name that wasn’t someone to be desired by the Amell family. A proper Noble lady did not show off her Soulname—especially not if the name wasn’t the name of the man she would be marrying. Leandra had known from the time she was nine that she wouldn’t be allowed to marry her soulmate, and had been encouraged to forget such a pipe dream from then forward.

Dreams are strange things, though. Difficult to kill, tenacious. Leandra had always been a dreamer.

Leandra wasn’t thinking about Malcolm when she shuffled closer to her parents as they browsed the streets of Hightown after an afternoon spent walking through the festival, buying bolts of cloth or new wall hangings, exotic spices and the like while enjoying the occasional bit of festival food and tried to figure out how to bring up her desire to go to one of the after-parties. She was instead thinking about the fact that three of her girlfriends would be making their way out tonight to the party, and that they had asked her to come with them to dance together and enjoy the night. They were standing together in one of the stalls, her mother looking over fine silks and brocades from Tevinter, while her father was looking over some of the rich furs imported from somewhere-or-other in the same stall. They were going to be headed back to the manor soon, she knew, and they had no plans for the evening but for a light meal. Most of them had had enough festival food this day not to be hungry for a heavy dinner.

Clearing her throat, Leandra spoke. “Pardon me, Mother, Father. “

Lady Bethann looked up from the lovely peach silk she was fingering, which she’d thought would make a lovely skirt for her daughter, and could probably also be used for a fine bloused shirt for her son. With the heavier, dark brown brocades and velvets nearby, they could have a nicely matched pair of clothes for the next ball they’d be going to in a few weeks. Yes, that brocade would make a lovely vest for her son, and could trim out the bodice of Leandra’s dress, she thought idly as she turned to her daughter. “Yes, Leandra, darling?” She smiled at her pride and joy, and Leandra returned it, a little nervous.

“I understand that we have no plans for this evening,” she began, with this statement catching Aristide’s attention. The man stared at her for a moment, his ice blue eyes narrowing slightly. Aristide was a striking man, his dark brown hair almost black, but surprisingly pale for that dark hair and those blue eyes, with angular, aristocratic features. Leandra swallowed, made nervous under her father’s piercing gaze, but went on. “And I…hoped you would allow me to attend the festival dances this evening, with my friends Faye Seander, Rose Mellano and Miranda Soomo. We would be back at a reasonable hour,” she hastened to reassure him, “and of course would behave befitting our stations!”

Her mother frowned at her and glanced at her father, whose ice blue eyes were narrowed and critical. It was Bethann who chose to reply, “The commoners do enjoy their…revels.” Lady Amell’s voice wasn’t—exactly—condescending, but it was clear she wasn’t especially approving of the party. She clearly didn’t like the idea of her daughter going to join them, and, hoping that the concern was over what Leandra’s intentions might be, she tried to reassure her.

“Yes, mother, but as I said, it’s quite innocent. We only want to go and enjoy the bards’ music and talk with one another.” 

Her father shook his head. “We have to prepare for the visit tomorrow with Lord and Lady Falchon, you know that, Leandra. This is not a good time for you to go—and it is below your station, anyhow.” His voice was firm, but, still hopeful, Leandra tried again.

“Of course, Father, but I’ve already made my preparations for the dinner tomorrow. I’ve had the servants air and press my gown, and have taken the time to review their latest business activities and acquisitions, so that I will be able to speak with them intelligently. Please, Father, Mother, with your permissions, I would very much like to attend the celebrations tonight.”

There was a moment of quiet, her father looking at her directly with a stony expression while Lady Amell looked over some linen bolts for sale at the booth they were at. She tried to ignore the way the servants accompanying them were trying to pretend not to hear the conversation. “While I understand that you would very much like to attend the celebrations, it cannot be allowed.” Her father’s voice was firm and unyielding, his gaze cool. “You are the heiress to the Amell family; you cannot be seen cavorting with the lower classes in the streets of Lowtown, Leandra. You know this.” 

Heart sinking, Leandra tried on last time, “But, Father, Mother—I’d do nothing untoward! I only want to go and see the fire-dancers—“ This was the point when her mother’s gaze focused on her again, fairly radiating disapproval.

“Hush, Leandra. You have heard the answer, and it will not change. You’ll not be attending, and the matter is to be dropped. Immediately.” Bethann held her daughter’s gaze steadily until Leandra dropped her eyes, obedient but quietly sullen and disappointed. As they walked away, Leandra caught one of the servants, Lilian, giving her a sympathetic look. Stricken with embarrassment, Leandra felt her face heat and she looked away, pretending interest in some of the embroidery thread for sale at the booth. The remaining time the family spent at the festival was quiet, somewhat awkward among the servants and guards and her brother, all of whom were trying and failing to act as though they’d not been unwilling third-parties to the near-argument, which was usually quite rare—at least between Leandra and her parents, anyhow—for the family, but which has been more and more common the last few months.

The awkward, and in her case, frustrated, silence continued until they got home and through their light evening meal. Much of it was spent with Leandra toying with her food, frowning down into her plate and giving only the responses she absolutely must, while meanwhile her parents behaved as though nothing in the world were wrong. They made light chitchat between themselves and Gamlen, occasionally including her in such a way that she was forced to respond or risk punishment. Unwilling to risk it, she went along with it, though she was aware that her smiles were painfully false and her tone flat, and she was pleased with it. This way they’d know she was upset, and this wasn’t just going to be okay. Leandra rarely asked for anything, and to be denied something as simple as a festival..! 

Leandra was still sulking when she got to her room that evening. She settled onto the bed to read a book for a while, but it did little to distract her from her thoughts and the anger and disappointment. Why wouldn’t they let her do this? It was hardly going to shame the Amell name! It was just a party, and most of the highborns her age were going! Probably her own parents had gone to it, when they were her age! She remained in her room for a while, frowning, as the sun set, a candle the only light in the room. It was well after full dark that a ping came from her window, and she recognized the sound of a pebble being flicked against the thick leaded glass.

Curious, Leandra opened the window and peered out, surprised to see Rose, Miranda, and Faye standing on the street below dressed in their knee-length summer party dresses, grinning up at her and Miranda already winding up for another throw. Soft giggles drifted up to her, and she heard one of them hiss, “Get dressed and come down, you ninny! You’ll be late!” Muffling a laugh, Leandra leaned out. “I’ve been forbidden!” she called down quietly, to a chorus of whisper-shouted, “Sneak out!”

Grinning so wide her cheeks hurt, Leandra waved at them and ducked back inside, requiring no more convincing than this. She’d snuck out with them before, although admittedly never for anything like this. Usually just for chances to go out at night to talk about boys and walk the streets unsupervised. In a whirlwind of activity, she made herself ready and then poked her head out to inform her lady-in-waiting that she was going to bed, and wished to be undisturbed until morning, as she always did, and then retreated to her room. She blew out the candle and crept out the window, climbing down the thick flowering vines climbing the wall of her house, and landed lightly beside her friends. Muffling their giggles and laughter, the four crept away from the house, wanting to get out of sight and hearing range quickly lest someone glance out the window and glimpse them.

“We heard about how you were told no. One of your servants told my Sadie, and she told me. We thought we’d come and liberate you,” Rose said with an impish grin, her fiery hair gleaming in the light of the torches lining the road as they approached the town square. They’d agreed to stick to Hightown, where it would be safer. There’d be guards aplenty here, and fewer unsavory sorts, they hoped. No point in getting themselves kidnapped while they were out enjoying their evening. “Faye had to sneak out, too. Her father said a dance like this wasn’t befitting of a young lady of her station.” They all rolled their eyes.

“That’s what mine said,” Leandra huffed a sigh. “Honestly. You’d think we were asking to go out and join a blood mage cult, not go to a perfectly ordinary festival dance!” The conversation moved on quickly to lighter topics at that point, such as the attractive boy that Miranda was sorely hoping to dance with at the party, and teasing over her obvious (and frankly quite hopeless) crush on the baker’s son.

~ + ~

* * *

~ + ~

Hightown’s market square was well-lit for the party occupying it that evening, with torches aplenty in wall-mounted brackets and freestanding oil lamps stood throughout the square. There were a lot of people there, and many vendors still selling their wares along the edges of the square. The center of it was given to dancing and there were a few different little makeshift stages set up for musicians, and each one had people clustered around, listening or dancing. The fire-dancers were off to a cleared area well away from anything flammable, a crowd cheering them on. The girls drifted around the party enjoying themselves, and Leandra found herself spending a few coins of her pocket money on a mug of lemonade flavored with crushed strawberries, and it was fantastic. She finished it quickly and watched with Rose and Faye as the baker’s son, Roanald, approached Miranda after her making eyes at him all night apparently got the message across. It was pretty funny to watch the poor guy trying to stumble through asking her to dance while Miranda stood there impatiently. She all but pounced on him after he got the words out, and Faye, Rose, and Leandra leaned on each other, laughing hard at the bewildered look on his face as he was dragged into the crowd. “P-poor guy doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into!” laughed Rose.

Faye was the next to get asked for a dance, and she abandoned them willingly to go with the young man whose name Leandra never caught, leaving Rose and herself. That was, it left her and Rose until Rose squealed something about ‘Richard!’ and rushed off into the crowd, leaving Leandra alone. Laughing a little, she turned and made her way through the crowds towards the corner the fire-dancers were occupying. She really did want to see them; she’d heard that it was amazing to watch.

Once she made her way towards the front of the group watching them, she was quickly drawn into the show, delight over the way they danced with the fire, and several even appeared to breathe fire like dragons. It was absolutely incredible! She found herself cheering and clapping along with the rest whenever they performed some great feat, and when they took a break, she found herself shaking her head in awe, and without even thinking, commented to the person nearest to her, “That was incredible! I almost feel as though, surely, they must be mages, to be able to do such things!”

It was only when an unfamiliar man’s voice spoke that she realized she’d spoken to a stranger, and she turned to him to see smiling gray eyes in a handsome, tanned face, wavy hair gleaming gold and bronze in the low firelight. He was a handsome man, and Leandra hoped the flush she could feel rising to her face would be attributed to the warmth and excitement. “Aye, it is incredible. What’s more amazing is that they’re not mages. None of that was magic. Very impressive, really…I suspect they use alcohol for the fire breathing.”

Leandra found herself returning his smile, replying, “Oh? That is very impressive. How do you know, if I may ask?” She wondered, curious. Leandra tried not to be obvious about the fact she thought him to be handsome. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a face made for smiling, and he looked very nice in his plain but well-made clothes, a simple pair of brown pants and a white shirt. 

His smile was self-deprecating, and he appeared to be waiting for something bad when he replied, “I didn’t sense any magic.”

Leandra wasn’t a fool, and connected the dots quickly. To be able to sense magic, he must be either a mage or a Templar, and he certainly wasn’t wearing anything to identify himself as a Templar, which in her experience they usually did. Her eyes widened slightly, and she asked, lowering her voice, “You’re a mage, then?” She wasn’t afraid, she thought. The Amells had of course met Circle mages before, and they had seemed like perfectly normal people, even if they were mages. Of course, if he turned out to be an apostate, well, that might be a little frightening. But he seemed like a good sort.

“Yes, I’m a Circle mage.” Surprise flickered across his face when she only nodded, and he asked, “You’re not afraid?”

“Should I be?” She raised a brow at him archly, lips twitching as she suppressed a smile.

Laughing, he returned, “Maybe you ought. I might be a wicked apostate, come seeking victims to sacrifice to a demon!” He teased, seeming to relax a little since she wasn’t—well, Leandra wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it must not have been bad.

“Well,” she said, mischievous, “have you considered that you might be the one in danger, Ser? Perhaps I’m a slaver here to steal you away for myself for ever more.” 

He swept into a deep bow, gray eyes sparkling with amusement. “Then you shall have me for-ever, Mistress Mystery, for who am I to deny the whims of a lovely and clever lass such as yourself?” He grinned at her, and when she offered her hand to him, he took it delicately and brushed his lips over her knuckles, straightening slowly and drawing nearer to her. “Will you do me a favor, mistress, and bestow upon me the honor of a dance?”

Her stomach fluttering with nerves and excitement, Leandra licked her lips nervously as he stepped forward, her breath hitching when she caught the way his eyes flickered down to watch the movement and darkened as his pupils widened. “I cannot dance with a stranger, Ser,” she replied a bit breathlessly, her voice lower with his proximity. Why was she so very attracted to this man? No one had ever affected her so!

A flicker of a smile crossed his face as he replied, voice low and warm, “Then allow me to remedy that by introducing myself. My name is Malcolm Hawke.”

And Leandra’s world shattered and rebuilt itself with this man at its center.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo. This ended up taking longer than I expected and running longer than I expected. I've got the next chapter planned out, but thought you'd rather get another shorter chapter, quicker than one really long one. I'm still not decided if I want to do one from Malcolm's POV or not. What say you?
> 
> So far I have 12 planned chapters for this thing, and that's before Marian ever meets Fenris. (This is going to be longer than I thought. A lot. I initially planned this to be a series of drabbles, but, well, we see where that went.)
> 
> I'm also surprised at how much research I've had to do about dates and details on history. And I'm less surprised about how much of that I'm throwing out the window. Let me know if you catch any major inconsistencies.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you like it! (If you want to review, they are much loved. :) )
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reviewed and gave kudos/etc!! I appreciate it!! :D


	4. An Interlude: Fenris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' perspective on Soulnames is a little different from Marian's. Danarius' perspective on Soulmates is also fairly unique. (Their opinions don't mesh especially well.)

Funny how an accident of birth can change things completely. How a word can have a completely different meaning to different people, all because of how they grew up, how they were raised, what society expected and demanded of them. Food, for example. Those in the middle-class, the working class, those with comfortable (if humble) homes and steady jobs able to keep them in a home and clothed and fed without wondering and worrying where the next meal came from, tended to view food as a mundanity of daily life. Time to cook breakfast and dinner, the same as any other day. Oh, still hungry? Have a second serving. There’s no fear regarding food—no dismissal of it, either—just a comfortable knowledge of where the food comes from, how to prepare it, and that they’ll have enough of it. It’s confidence and competence and the security of a full belly all rolled into one. But that’s not how other people view food.

For the rich, the vastly wealthy folks who have others to deal with the little aspects of life such as preparing their food and cleaning up and disposing of waste, food is a disposable and minor commodity. It’s a thing with which one indulges oneself and flaunts one’s wealth. Look, I’m so wealthy that I enjoy the most exotic of spices and teas with each of my meals. I eat pheasant and beef daily. Do you see how refined my cook is? Do you see what delicacies cross my table? Food, to them, was not in and of itself valuable or particularly important—they only vaguely even have an understanding of hunger or the possibility that food might not be constantly available for some. For them food is a tool to flaunt their power and wealth and ability to select skilled cookstaff. If too much food is cooked—and invariably, more food is prepared than eaten—they do not care what is done with the leftovers. Let the pages and the cooks and the maids take of the brokenmeats what they will, and throw the rest in the trash or to the dogs for all they care. 

To the poor, food is scarce and guarded jealously when gotten, precious because the stale end-loaf, the half-ruined scrapings off of plates at inns, the soft carrot-ends with wilted greens—these are all **life** to those who have nothing. Sure, mayhap that near-foul leftover stew won’t taste as good as it might have otherwise, but it’ll fill the belly sure enough, and stave off starvation and ease the constant hunger-cramps and nausea and dizziness for one more night…which is, in all honesty, as far ahead as most people in that situation can bring themselves to think. When you have nothing, then everything you own is worth fighting viciously over; the loss of anything, however small, is very much a threat to your life.

Fenris knows this from experience. He was born into slavery, and although he remembers little of his life Before, it is enough to know that his life was exactly the sort of life people often imagine when they think of slavery. They were ill-clothed, ill-used, ill-fed, and ill-treated, scrabbling in the dirt for the barest scrap of food, clothing, or kindness. Each day they worked their fingers to the bone with little rest and less reward. He never knew his father as far as he can remember, which admittedly is not much; but that is the case for some born-slaves in Tevinter. No few slaves become pregnant from the attentions of their masters or other freemen, and the freemen would hardly have interest in claiming the bastard children they’d fathered. On the whole it was often safer for the slaves to never mention who the father might be, lest they or their child suffer for it. Others become pregnant by other slaves, either through dalliances or deliberate breedings arranged by their owners—sometimes, one or the other parent will be sold, or sometimes, they were never owned by the same master, anyways. Fenris didn’t know which, but he did know that his few memories of his life Before did not contain any male parental figure, and he did not remember his mother ever speaking of his father.

He never could remember much of his life Before—before the lyrium, before waking nude and trembling in the aftermath of agony, unable to remember anything, even his name. What he did remember was enough, years later, to be grudgingly grateful for his life in the aftermath—even if his existence with Danarius was hardly ideal. His life could have gone far differently—and, indeed, far worse than it did. He recognizes that much later, though the thought is bitter and leaves a sour taste in the back of his mouth. Flashes of beatings, of huddling in the dark of a windowless mud-hut that was all that was allocated to slaves where they lived, half-naked and hungry. Always hungry. He remembered once being told to lick someone’s boots in exchange for a half-eaten piece of buttered bread. He remembered that he’d done it, too, without even feeling the burn of humiliation over the freeborn children’s laughter; he’d only done it and then scrambled forward eagerly to snatch the bread up off the ground where the boy had thrown it, had crammed it into his mouth before it could be taken away. He remembered being pathetically glad for it, remembered savoring the taste of the fresh bread even with the dirt ground into the butter. It was the most vivid memory Fenris had of his life Before. It was enough.

As it was with food, so it was with Soulnames. Fenris was aware of them during his life in Tevinter with Danarius. He couldn’t not be. He had one on his own wrist, after all. Fenris had been one of the few slaves in Danarius’ compound who hadn’t had his branded off until it was just an ugly mess of scar tissue, hiding what it had once been. He hadn’t noticed it, at first; too busy being caught up in learning his place in the world and what was expected of him. It’d only been a few months into his new life that he’d really noticed the way the other slaves’ eyes traveled to his wrist and its black scrawl, the way they’d often look at him with anger or some emotion he couldn’t quite place, but much later realized was envy. Once he’d started looking back, he’d realized that these people didn’t have Soulnames—not anymore. It had drawn his attention to his wrist more and more, and he’d found himself contemplating the mark in his down time.

The mark itself had no meaning to him; it was just lines and swirls and dots on his wrist, dark against the moon-pale skin, but he knew that it did have meaning. It meant that there was a part of him that belonged to someone else, and that there was a part of that person that belonged to him. Someone out there had _his_ name on their wrist. Someone out there would love him, someday, the way that soulmates were supposed to love each other. His name was on their wrist—although he couldn’t for the life of him imagine what it might look like, that mark that somehow, inexplicably, meant _him_ \--and that meant they were his and he was theirs. Forever. Still, his mark couldn’t tell him much—he couldn’t look at it and imagine somehow what they might be like, how they might look. Fenris wondered distantly sometimes if reading would let him know those things—if he would look at his Soulname and read it and know things about his soulmate, like how old they were, or what gender they were, or what they looked like, or what they were like. Maybe that’s how it was for people who could read. For Fenris, it was just a marking. Whenever he looked at the swirling lines and dots, he never pictured anyone, never imagined their voice or the color of their eyes, he just imagined feeling safe and warm. It was a comfort to him, and it was worth bearing the jealous glances of the other slaves at his wrist. It was worth their hatred and resentment for his still having what they had lost. He was grateful for the mark, for it was there for him when he had nothing else tethering him to the world but the glowing lyrium imbedded in his skin and Danarius’ cruel voice in his ears.

It was not kindness that had Danarius leave it on him, though. He’d thought so, at first, when he was still new and had no memories beyond the burning pain and waking up still bound on the table with the room lit by the glow of his own skin. It was not long before any thoughts of kindness on Danarius’ part fled, though. There was nothing of kindness in the magister. Danarius didn’t have something in him that other people did—this, Fenris recognized early on—some part of him, some undefinable aspect of him that others had that lit their eyes with warmth and life was missing. He did not have something which others did have, and it left him cold and distant and empty, which was a frightening thing to witness, that icy regard behind those eyes.

Danarius had caught him looking at his mark one day, tracing his fingertips over the looping-wobbly black lines on the inside of his wrist. It was always fascinating to look at. The lines and marks somehow skipped and swooped around the lyium as if they’d merrily hopped out of the way when the lyrium cut through their path. The mage had arched a brow at him and he’d felt himself flushing, embarrassed to be caught. Danarius had said, “Do you know what that is, little wolf?” He’d nodded his head, murmured a polite agreement, and when prompted further, elaborated, “It’s my soulname, Sir.”

“And do you know what it means?” Danarius had seemed quietly amused, almost smug. His eyes had glittered with something in the low light that made Fenris uncomfortable. He’d been unable to read Danarius, unable to understand the amusement, and that was always dangerous. Danarius was much more dangerous when you couldn’t predict him.

He’d answered, hesitant, “It…it means…that I,” he swallowed, “have a soul mate?” It was more a question than an answer, and he’d faltered as he spoke, expecting to be punished. No punishment was forthcoming, however. Danarius just chuckled, the sound not warm and inviting as it should have been, were he someone else. Cold. It was cold, like everything about the mage. Fenris had felt a shiver of tension coil up his spine; the chuckle did not mean that there was no punishment coming. It just meant that it would hurt all the more when it came. He hated that he could not yet see where the trap was, where the attack was coming from.

“You’re not wrong, Fenris. Tell me,” Danarius had said, settling his hands demurely into his lap and leaning back in a way that should have lessened the threat—but that pointedly did not. “do you imagine your soulmate will find you one day, sweep in to ‘rescue’ you and take you away from me?” His smile was pleasant as he spoke, but his eyes cruel, and Fenris’ gut clenched and churned with nausea and fear. Everybody knew that slaves weren’t to think of freedom or escape. Everybody knew that even thinking about it was grounds for punishment, and Danarius hated escaped slaves more than almost anything. He was a grasping, possessive man—and even if he had no use for something, he would rather see it destroyed than lost to him without profit. Fenris had never dared entertain such thoughts as Danarius was suggesting outside of his own little room at night. But there, with what little privacy he was afforded, away from Danarius and Hadriana and all the rest, he sometimes stroked his Soulname and dreamed about just that. Living with them—safe, free, and happy. Luckily, Danarius didn’t seem to actually want an answer, and instead swept right along without waiting for a response, relishing Fenris’ wide eyes and obvious fear. “Don’t be a fool. If you find your Soulmate, Fenris, if they see their name on your wrist and recognize you, and actually want you, then they will come—and I’ll take them, too.” Danarius smiled cruelly at Fenris, and Fenris felt as though this was all coming down a long tunnel, his heart racing and a rushing sound in his ears. Danarius continued, ruthless, “I’ll do with them what I’ve done with you, little wolf, and at the end of it have a matched pair. Don’t you think that will be poetic, Fenris?”

Danarius had smiled at him, cruelty glimmering like ice in his eyes. “That’s why you still have that mark. To remind you that even the little bit of you that doesn’t belong to me—it will, one day.”

Fenris wished he had the courage to burn the mark off of his own wrist. He spent the rest of the night watching the coals glow in the fire, longing to snatch one up and erase all evidence that he had a soul. Instead he just knelt at Danarius’ feet with his head on the mage’s knee, being pet like a dog.

~ + ~

* * *

~ + ~

Six years later, having experienced freedom and the horror that went along with it, with the blood of his _friends_ still drying on his hands and sword, Fenris had grimly thrust his wrist against the coal-hot belly of a potbelly stove in the ship Danarius had brought him on, and held it there while the skin sizzled and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air, gritting his teeth against the burning agony until Danarius wrenched him away with a shout. He’d grinned viciously up at Danarius with bared, bloody teeth until the mage had beaten him to unconsciousness. _(He had no concept of its meaning, but Fenris had long since memorized the sharp lines and wide swishes of his mark.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo sorry for the delay!! D: I started writing the next chapter about 3 different times and ways, and nothing ever seemed right. I'm having a really hard time with Leandra and Malcolm's story, even though I know what happens in it. I'm working on it guys, I promise--just very slowly.
> 
> In the mean time, Fenris decided he had a perspective to share, and so he did. Hope this makes up for it, a little!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god so, I've never really done a chaptered work before and ever actually stuck with it, but, I, this idea struck me with the force of a sledgehammer. So. Here we are. Expect these all to be super super short chapters and drabble-style. Also un-betaed, so there's that.
> 
> I hope this doesn't stink horribly. If I get this one done satisfactorily, I'll be following it with a Fenris one.


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